hollywood ain't home
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: Hollywood ain't home, sonny,  why can't you remember that? / Freddie&Sam. Oneshot.


**Well, this little ditty has been gathering dust on my Microsoft Word documents. I've been working on it on and off for, let's say, quite a few months, but not a year. I almost didn't continue it, as this is _not_ my norml forte in writing, but as I mentioned in my previous Victorious fic, I want to write like this too, so I guess I'll just keep cranking out these attempts alongside my actual type of writing.**

The noisy volume of the airport makes your headache worse but you can deal with it a minute longer. Spencer gives you a brotherly bear hug that almost crushes your spine (_s k i n n y m a n g o t s t r o n g_), which makes you laugh to hide the bit of pain. Carly hugs you, only softer, and gives you a friendly (_n o t h i n g m o r e_) kiss on your cheek before the brother and sister turn to the blonde.

It's kind of odd how you and Sam are traveling there together but you have a dream in common. iCarly has since ended but the two of you aren't ready to stop your life of fame. You aren't conceited fame-chasers—it's a calling, and you know it. She's an aspiring female comedian and you're going to be there to film every movie she'll make. You think she can be more than just a comic, what with her already Californian beauty (_b e t t e r t h a n C a l i f o r n i a_). The waves of grain that are her lush curls hang like drapes over her perfectly shaped face with those endless swirls of blue in those two shining orbs. It takes all you have not to grab her and run away from the Shays now so you can be alone with this creature of loveliness.

Carly and Spencer give you two their last farewells and "good lucks" and "take cares" before you and your fellow flyers board the plane. You carry Sam's luggage along with yours (_b e g e n t l e m a n l y_), although she protests with saying she's not some "weak priss".

The flight is much more peaceful than you expect it to be with your crazy new partner in crime. She's not complaining about being so close to you—rather you getting the window seat. But the sight outside the window is too spectacular to give up: the clouds whirl around with the gusts of wind the plane's engines blow and the blueness of the sky is just wondrous (nothing compares to those blue spheres on her face, though). You can't bear her not seeing it, so you touch her shoulder and tell her to look. She climbs over you to get a good look and you can just smell her and it kills you how you're too stupid to not tell her how you feel already (_w h a t ' s t o f e a r ?)_. A smile comes across her face and you cannot believe you've made her happy in the slightest sense.

/./././

Within a year the two of you have made three B-rated movies that aren't even rented in Blockbuster. You're just happy you're out there but not Sam; she wants to be bigger, _better_, **awesomer**. She can't survive without giving a rant in the morning about how it's your stupid techie work that's keeping you from getting anywhere. You just roll your eyes and try to keep that grin from showing behind your coffee cup. Sometimes she gets angry at your lack of emotion from her insults and goes to her bedroom. You can't afford more than a two-bedroom apartment in this crummy town. If it weren't for the fact you're in _Hollywood_ with the girl _of your dreams_ making _movies_, you'd go back to that nicer apartment with your mom.

The next day Sam awakens with an ingenious idea that'll be your big break (_l i k e e v e r y i d e a_) so you spruce up to go to another big Hollywood producer to pitch the plot. She adorns a shortcut dress that have little black flowers circling it; such a dress enhances her already angelic beauty and your heart stops beating when you see her. It's enough to make you bang your head against the wall. You wish you could escape your heart but you can't because she always _there_ (_b e i n g b e a u t i f u l_).

The producer isn't a huge fan of the idea Sam's conjured. He remembers you from the last time and that last movie—the one about a girl and her dog time-traveling—wasn't very profitable. You plead with him to give you one last chance but he isn't letting up. You're about to give up when Sam slyly smiles at him while taking his hand.

"Please, Mr. Pfeiffer." she says with a coy twinkle in her pupils. "This is important to Mister Benson and me. If you could give us just _one_ chance…" She gives him these Bambi eyes that shock him and he tugs at his tie like it just got hot. You glare at Sam because you know just what she's going for—the romantic edge. It boils the blood in your veins—she's not doing herself justice by flirting with him so he allows this production to go on. Before Pfeiffer can say a word you've grabbed Sam's hand and are dragging her out of his office.

"What's the prob, Freddork?" she says as she attempts to get her hand out of your grasp but you've grown stronger over the years and she can no longer overcome you. Your brown gaze burns into her blue, and she almost cringes.

"You're toying with emotions, that's the prob." you say angrily, "We can get a deal without you doing that." She rolls her eyes but doesn't say anything more (_p r o b a b l y b e c a u s e y o u ' r e r i g h t_). You don't want her doing things like that because it's very demeaning of her and because you love her so darn much it hurts to see her flirt with strange men. You want her for yourself with all your love and heart and soul but like _heck_ she feels the same. The closest you'll get to being hers is if you make a romantic comedy.

A little light bulb blinks in your head; you grin as you explain the idea to Sam. She seems really excited at your choice of genre, and yells "Perfect! We'll make it this time!" Then she hugs you powerfully with a peck on your cheek. All day long after that you're rubbing that spot where her lips made contact with your skin.

/./././

Flashing cameras and screaming fans crowd around you as you stride down the red carpet. It's been two months since your romantic comedy came out and topped the charts. The whole love/hate got people ravenous and now they scream your names with passion. Sam's finally happy with the big win you've achieved. You're finally happy because you played opposite her in the film as the bad boy who fell in love with a bookworm. Now every girl—young and old—posts pictures of you on their walls and ceilings and guys—young and old—fantasize about Sam. It angers you when a fanboy shouts for Sam's number (_i t ' s y o u s h e s h o u l d l o v e_). But you just think that you're her best friend who lives in the same apartment with her and you feel _better_.

In the darkness of the theater you, fans, and celebrities (is that Johnny Depp?) watch as you and Sam (_D a l l a s a n d R o s i e o n s c r e e n_) argue. There you are, clad in leather, on a motorcycle with Sam clutching books to her chest and wearing a beautiful white-collared shirt and gray skirt. Even in librarian clothing she's hot—stunning. After awhile into the film your favorite part comes on: when Dallas and Rosie embrace the forbidden love they hold and kiss for twenty seconds. Sam shifts uncomfortably but your eyes are glued to the screen with joy (_t h a t ' s y o u k i s s i n g h e r — __**y o u**_). If only that wasn't acting and you could really kiss her whenever you wanted. You can't and it hurts—hurts like a bullet to the chest. But for one brief moment she was in your arms and you were together as one, like you want to be for all time.

/./././

The tabloids are filled with photographs of her and varied celebrity hunks. Rumors are she's dating one of them but you know they're just rumors. Or you think. No, they are—Sam would tell you if she was dating someone. It'd hurt to find she was but you trust her to say something.

One day you sit in the mansion's kitchen (_y o u s t i l l l i v e t o g e t h e r_) when the front door's slam echoes down the hall. Its loudness—followed by giggles and conversation—causes you to stand up. You know it is Sam because she left an hour ago for an autograph signing. Around the corner comes one of America's hugest It Boys. His arm is wrapped around the prettiest woman in the world. It makes your heart shatter like glass—the rumors are true. Sam is in reality dating someone.

"Hey, Freddichino, this is Diego Reed." she introduces, gesturing to the tan-skinned star with affection. "He's been in a lot of soap operas and even a sci-fi picture." Her voice (_s o s o f t a n d h a r m o n i o u s_) is a big roaring in your ear as you continue to stare—h e a r t b r o k e n—at her boyfriend, _Diego_.

You see his ugly mug there every day. She's too busy being kissy-face with the moron to notice you're in pain from it. Diego's too handsome, too cool, too perfect for her to give you a second glance. You've been her best friend forever, lived with her, [made her a fricking star], kissed her first. But she doesn't drape herself over you like a fangirl with love and adoration. It's…**him,** pretty little **Diego** him.

/./././

_"I love you, Freddie. You're the most wonderful man ever. Marry me?"_

"Yes. Sam, yes, I will marry you!" You forget for a moment this isn't Sam—it's some fan that has the same luscious blonde locks and glittering blue eyes. Hope is in her eyes and a smile lights up her face. It crushes you to think because of your stupid outburst you have to break her heart. Your stupid outburst caused by furious jealousy. After you take back your words, she's completely devastated. Of course she starts to cry (_c r y, c r y, c r y_) and everyone's giving you looks. You know this is going in the tabloids when you see paparazzi appearing.

Just as you predicted, the next day when you head out (in sunglasses and a hoodie to hide your identity) magazines are on shelves with you and the girl on it. Harsh calculations are printed inside and you want to hurt someone very badly.

Perhaps Diego.

No one hires you for new films after the "scandal". Now you know how other celebs feel when their names get dragged through the mud. What boils your blood though is that Sam and _Diego_ have signed a contract to be in the new vampire trilogy where they get to be all kiss-kiss on- and off-screen while you hide from reporters making up news stories.

Eventually, after hiding in the shadows for so long, people want you back; you're hired for some corny new sitcom where you play the teenaged jerky brother ("How appropriate!" says one critic in the newspaper). Soon enough your face is once again replacing those of Jonas Brothers' on the walls of young girls, and the untrue accusations drown in the Hollywood sea.

But _she_ hasn't drowned in your thoughts.

You see her face everywhere too: movie posters, CD covers, magazines. There, here, everywhere, _staring at you_. Your heart still beats as you stare at those eyes (the unblinking eyes). A staring match, long and heartbreaking, ensues between you and magazine-her.

"Buddy, yous gonna buy it or what?" asks the bookstore clerk rudely. He apparently doesn't see it's you—_the Freddie K. Benson, teenage heartthrob!_—and you'd rather he not, so you toss five bucks on the counter, take the magazine, and grunt "Keep the change" as you run out.

You flip through the pages (_where is she? in here somewhere. . ._) and come across a four-page article on her and _Diego_'s baby boy, adopted from Uganda. Married weeks ago, and now a baby named Hugo.

You attract attention with your loud, anguished scream, and the paparazzi and young fans surround you for photos and autographs. You don't need this, not after this news…but you smile and hug the girls 'cause _this is Hollywood, land of happiness 24/7_.

/./././

"Hey, Freducation!"

"S-Sam?"

Oh, _god_, she's dazzling. A flowing white dress with a French braid for her blonde hair and a golden-brown tan. How come she just gets _better_ every time? It was just a simple cocktail party hosted by Taylor Swift to commemorate the new film she's in—you bought a simple tuxedo, ate a simple piece of shrimp—how did the girl _of your dreams_ (who _crushed your dreams_) end up here too?

She punches you in the shoulder like she always did. Her eyes are sad but so happy too as she wraps you in a hug. "Haven't seen you round in…what, a year?"

"That long?" you whisper, "That's…too long." She smiles and nods, like this meeting is insignificant and you'll be with her again tomorrow, and forever, at her side for as long as you both shall live.

Her husband is Diego. There's no way that's happening.

She refills her champagne glass, and clinks it against yours. "Well, here's to our careers." she says, "Hopefully we can collaborate." You smile and swallow heartily, almost choking. You want that so badly; you want to be close to her again. After she moved out and married _Diego_ and adopted Hugo there's been no communication whatsoever. Even if it's fake (_s t i l l a n d a l w a y s a n d f o r e v e r_) you want to just **hold** her, **kiss** her, **be with** her for as long as possible.

/./././

In a few months, a big shot record label calls you up because _Samantha Puckett wants to sing with you_. You remember what she said at Taylor Swift's party, and suddenly you're all choked up. Somehow you manage to tell them yes, and they give you an address and say to meet them at eight o'clock that night. You hit every green light.

When you walk in the walls are lined with red velvet and golden records hang on the walls. They glimmer and blind you as you stroll in, out of place in such a building in your sneakers and collared shirt and jeans (_hey, it's the Freddie Benson way, ladies and gentlemen_). They lead you to a room with Sam inside, eye-catching in an outfit mirroring yours. They make no complaints. She hits you in the arm with a "Let's get started, Freddork."

You two walk into the recording booth where microphones are shoved in your mouths and headphones are over your ears. Music plays through them, and you sing the lyrics written on the sheet in front of you. You can hear the pitchy tone of your voice, but the men outside of the booth immediately flip switches and punch buttons, for whatever reasons. Eventually, you can hear your voice, only much more melodic than at first. (You and Sam have several takes until you get it _j u s t_ right.)

"Okey-doke, Miss Puckett," one of the men say (_she's still _PUCKETT_ after Diego_ [_she's not entirely gone_]). "We'll run these tracks again, and then y'all can take a break." Sam winks in response; soon the men have finished their doings and gone outside for coffee. You take off your headphones as Sam does too.

"Well, that was—" you start, but you don't finish because Sam has you by the arms, pressing her _**lips**_ against _**yours**_. You're caught off guard, but you allow her to weave her hands through your hair, her lips mold with yours, and her leg brush against yours. Flashes of daydreams resembling this reality go in and out, and you wrap her closer, kiss her fiercely, until your back is against the glass.

She releases you, panting. You stare back {**at those shiny lips**} and your body tingles with exhilaration. You and Sam…Sam and you…Freddie and Sam…Sam and Freddie…

All you can think of is _SamFreddieSamFreddieSamDiego_—

_Diego_.

(oh right her husband)

Suddenly, your exhilaration turns to panic. This isn't Sam Puckett—this is Sam Reed, your worst enemy's wife. You kissed a married woman.

{even if she should be yours}

Reluctantly, you keep your hands at her shoulders, warding her off. She blankly gazes back, not surprised, but not expecting it either.

"_What?"_ Her hot breath smells like alcohol and cigarette smoke and glitter (_' c a u s e s h e ' s a s p e r f e c t a s s h e i s b r o k e n_). You stare into those pools of blue. They're magic, they're lovely, and they're above a beautiful nose and ready lips.

You shake your head. You kiss her again.

/./././

For awhile, it's none too shabby.

Sure, she's still married to Diego (suddenly it doesn't hurt so much to speak his name) and busying herself with autograph signings and record labels and movies, but secretly you're alongside her, kissing her when the camera goes the other direction. Soon your CD comes out, and everyone's dying for a piece of that Freddie Benson voice (more techno than person). Then, with so much _SamFreddie _again, you both are cranking out movies by the truckload.

A lot of them are remakes, a lot cheesy sequels, but you have one or two stand-alone pieces that win Oscars and the hearts of millions. You're on Oprah – Ellen – Leno – Conan – Letterman. Whoever wants you gets you, at any time.

But there's something _m i s s i n g. . ._

When Diego's not looking, Sam is kissing you, and you're hugging her, and you're both sososo HAPPY. But then, she's not yours. In some teensy {legal} way, she's still connected to Diego. She's still a wife – a mother. You want her to be Sam Benson, with your little baby girl Emily [hey, a dude can dream], but she's not that way. You need her to be, though.

"Sam…" you whisper in the back of a crowded theater at the premiere of your latest film (_Revenge of the Noxious Super-Bugs From Uranus II_), obscured by sunglasses and stealing kisses every once in awhile.

"Mmm?" she whispers back.

And it all happens so fast as you mumble _"Leave him,"_ and she shakes her head, terrified, horrified.

"So what," you say, "Brad Pitt did it to Jennifer Aniston. Just make me Angelina Jolie – okay, that sounds weird, but you love me, and I love you, so – "

"_Love?"_ It cuts like a knife. _"No…Freddie, this is fun…but_ **love**_?"_

When the lights come up in the theater, you're gone.

/./././

**Love? **_Love?_ Love? _**L o v e ?**_

You repeat it in so many ways, so many styles, but it sounds the same every time…

It sounds like heartbreak.

She doesn't love you. Ugh, so S T U P I D, Benson! You've been friends since middle school, and you've loved her for longer, but why would she love you back? There's _Diego_ (_i t h u r t s a g a i n_) and Hugo and her career and you're just a little checkmark on the calendar, the days passing until you're over with. Hollywood ain't home, sonny (_why can't you remember that?_).

But what really hurts is that you'd do it all again just to be near her.

/./././

You leave the spotlight for weeks. Then months. Then years. Your facial hair grows thick and ugly, your clothes grow tattered and disgusting, and your dingy apartment penthouse reeks of marijuana. Pills lie on the kitchen table, joints are scattered, ashes and smoke hang heavy in the air.

And she's out in the world, sparkling and smiling {and not thinking of you}, with her three new babies from Peru and Kenya and Russia. Your walls are lined with magazine clippings, stained with beer from when you throw bottles against the wall in anger (_t h e s h a r d s s p i l l o v e r t h e c a r p e t_). And you know you aren't Brad & Jennifer & Angelina. Brad l o v e d Jennifer first, but he doesn't belong with Angelina s e c o n d.

One day you lie on your bed, smoking a joint and swigging beer, some '90s sitcom playing drearily in the background, and then you just _fall. . .a s l e e p. . ._

/./././

BREAKING NEWS: FREDDIE K. BENSON, TEEN SENSATION, DIES OF DRUG OVERDOSE, LEAVES INCOMPREHENSIBLE NOTE ON BEDSIDE TABLE.

/./././

_I loved you, _it reads, and when she arrives at the scene of the crime, and then comes to the funeral with that worn yellow slip of paper in her shaking hand, you know that she knows it's for her.


End file.
